


Event Horizon

by Kimauki (Rumchata)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8017639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumchata/pseuds/Kimauki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Event Horizon -- “The point at which the gravitational pull becomes so great as to make escape impossible, even for light.”</p><p>Talon is at last beginning to turn the tides against Overwatch. When Tracer finds she can't even count time on her side, she'll have to find some way out of the mess she's gotten into-- namely, falling right into Talon's clutches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fall From Faith

**Author's Note:**

> > Event Horizon-- "In general relativity, an event horizon is a boundary in spacetime beyond which events cannot affect an outside observer. In layman's terms, it is defined as "the point of no return", i.e., the point at which the gravitational pull becomes so great as to make escape impossible, even for light. " (Source: Wikipedia)

Tremors from a nearby explosion rocked the filthy, deprecated walls of an alley in which Tracer ducked for cover. Breathing hard, she held herself up against the wall as she inspected a small gash by her leg. King’s Row offered little by way of light besides a few scattered street lamps, though fortunately she could count on her own accelerator to provide a little light. Small perks, yeah? 

_Right. Just a scratch._

“ _TRACER!_ DO YOU COPY?” There was a pause, amidst a bout of roaring that sounded like her favorite scientist was otherwise a bit occupied. Nothing atypical from most of their missions, honestly. Muffled shouting in the distance confirmed he must be right in the thick of it. “They’ve brought reinforcements. Where are you? We may need to retreat if this keeps up.”

Frowning, Tracer thumbed her communication dial with a careful eye trained on the alley’s exit. 

“What! Already? We _just_ got here!”

“Well, it seems Talon’s been enlisting more recruits. We can’t risk it—not after the last two missions.”

Right. 

The last two missions they _failed_ , and the last two missions in which it became embarrassingly obvious just how understaffed Overwatch—their little band of heroes—had become. They’d lost a payload containing valuable information in Dorado, and their servers at Watchpoint Gibraltar had been breached at last (they’d been trying for months now) during a push from Talon while half the team had been off base. It was a sour loss, and everyone had been scrambling to change current safe houses and other vital components of their private lives in the aftermath of it. Angela was pushing herself so hard these days, Tracer was afraid she’d have to be kicked out of the med room as well before she succumbed to exhaustion. Luckily, Fareeha was by her side most of the time, making sure she at least got adequate sleep (or a relaxing cup of tea). The only problem was, none of them could honestly afford to be without the doctor and her services either. Just as well as they couldn’t be without any of the others for the assets they provided.

Winston was unfortunately speaking the harsh truth; they simply couldn’t risk it. 

And yet…

“--Lena?”

With a sigh, the ex-pilot tapped the device once more.

“Yeah, big guy?”

“I’m making it an order now. Don’t get any ideas, okay? We _need_ you back in one piece.”

He obviously knew her too well. Always trying to save the day against all odds, he’d say.

“Yeah, yeah, I gotcha… be there in a jiffy.” Tracer acquiesced, closing the comm channel.

This would be the third mission in a row that they’d lost to Talon. Thoughts wandering, her attention fell on fresh graffiti lingering on the wall by her side, condemning omnics to servitude along with a host of crude anti-omnic slurs. Tracer couldn’t help the tightness in her throat-- _Mondatta…_ he had been the first mission she failed, on a much more personal level. The first time she’d been given a true solo run, and it should have been easy enough. Keep one eye on Mondatta, and another on the crowds. Should have been easy, given the government’s reinforcements, alongside access to their private channel. If she had known that she’d (no matter how accidentally) chosen herself over her own spiritual idol—guilt gnawed at her from deep within, the graffiti gargling into a blur. Angela had spent many long nights with her, reassuring her that it had never been her fault, but Tracer couldn’t quite shake the weight of responsibility after realizing that Widowmaker had played her for a fool. 

_And she had laughed._

It was one of the few times since the Slipstream incident that she felt her pride take a real beating. As far as everyone else was concerned, Tracer was the shining picture of optimism. Codename: Tracer, hero by day—and Lena Oxton, the cheerful friend who knew how to make anybody smile, by night. Angela had seen through her façade like the perceptive doctor she was, but Tracer liked to keep it under wraps if she could help it. If she were to start losing hope in front of everyone, well, she didn’t want to risk shaking Overwatch’s fragile faith any further. They all had enough on their own plates. Tracer usually solved most of her problems these days with a wealthy amount of whiskey and a heck of a lot of distractions otherwise. She knew it wasn’t healthy, but a temporary fix was a ton easier than coming face to face with some of her own personal demons. 

And boy, was she starting to collect a lot of those. 

So distracted she was, Tracer nearly jumped at the sound of a loud rifle shot from across the sky—the bullet burrowing just a few inches shy from making its mark in the middle of her skull. She followed the supposed trajectory, catching the glint of metal at the top of a building’s tower in the distance. 

_One shot, one kill, huh?_

Seemed Widowmaker wanted company. 

Winston’s words were still fresh in her mind, but Tracer couldn’t resist one quick detour before grouping up with the others. He’d paged the coordinates for the rendezvous already, yet it wouldn’t do to ignore the assassin either. After all, the only good that would do is simply lead her straight to their escape route. Still, Tracer felt just the slightest hint of guilt for following the sniper's clear invitation—and as upset as she was over Mondatta, the two had shared some semblance of an…’agreement’. Tracer honestly wasn’t entirely sure there were any actual _rules_ attached to this vague concept between the two of them, but over time it had become obvious that neither truly shot to kill. To injure, sure, as blood was never absent in these little fights of theirs. And above all... Well, a small part of Tracer had a hard time complaining about seeing the assassin’s face, preferring to chalk it up to just enjoying an actual challenge with the woman here and there. 

Sometimes, though, when there was just a fifth of alcohol left in the bottle on those long nights, her thoughts would wander toward the sniper in ways that were all too inappropriate for one to entertain of an enemy.

Tracer wasn’t really proud of it, to be honest. She’d sooner die than admit to having those little fantasies, too. She used to have them back when Widowmaker was known by another name-- Amélie. Back when she belonged to a man Tracer used to look up to, eager for his praise as a fledgling member of Overwatch. She'd felt guilty entertaining those little thoughts back then, because Amélie seemed so out of her league and much too elegant for someone like her. But now? Now it was downright masochistic of her.

Blinking over rooftops with ease, it didn’t take long at all to reach the source of the shot. It could be easily overlooked, since the buildings were all cramped together like jagged toothpicks in a line—some leaning on others for support as years of neglect weighed on the architecture. King’s Row was not known as the most modern part of the world, for obvious reasons. This tower was the highest lot of the bunch, with its sharp tipped roof sticking out against the bruising night sky. With as much caution as one had the right to exert entering a sniper’s domain, Tracer hopped up from the shingles of a neighboring building. She peeked around the corner, wary of any tricks. It was always good to remain suspicious—just in case. 

“Step into my parlor,” Widowmaker sneered, grin as bright as the gleaming yellow of her eyes. Her rifle was cocked, scope staring at the ceiling of her sniper’s nest in such a way that offered no immediate threat. Her casual stance kept Tracer on high alert-- though to be frank with how often they exchanged blows it was not considered dangerous enough for her to engage the assassin like this. If Widowmaker had truly wanted her dead, Tracer knew she would have done it by now. And by all accounts…if Tracer wanted her dead, the same could be said as well. 

Dangerous sort of truce, that it was.

“So kind of ya’ to invite me here, love—but what’s the occasion?” Tracer asked curiously, both hands on her hips—with guns at the ready.

“Your little band of heroes...” Widowmaker nodded in the general direction of the fight. “The last few missions have been nothing more than child’s play. It seems that Overwatch is losing its edge, _non?_ ” 

That hit a nerve. 

Tracer took a bold step forward, humiliated at the stark truth in her words. 

“That’s real cute, t’think a few lost missions gives you the upper hand, love.” 

Widowmaker chuckled, clearly satisfied with her reaction.

“Then, prove me wrong, _Cherie_.”

And just like that, their dance had begun.

Tracer led first, propelling forward in time with a flash of blue followed by a spray of bullets. Clearly having anticipated this move, the assassin dodged with the grace of a ballet dancer, her own rifle opening fire from short range. Tracer blinked off to the side, laughing as she blew a few stray bangs out of her vision.

“Gonna have to do better than that, y’know!” 

The taunt merely raised an eyebrow from the assassin, who looked as though she’d barely broken a sweat. When they'd first started fighting, Tracer used to find it downright unnerving-- where she'd be heaving for air, it seemed as though Widowmaker could only work up the lightest sheen of perspiration. This time, she let herself dip backward into the temporal flow—a trust fall she’d taken years to grow familiar with, calculating exactly when to reappear directly behind Widowmaker. Tracer only had a second of opportunity which she used to kick the rifle from her grip, earning a hook to the face in retaliation. Another blink shook her free of the proximity, eye now smarting as she reloaded both of her clips. 

Where Tracer expected Widowmaker to dodge her next round of fire, the assassin stood her ground and opted for tripping the Brit instead. Caught off guard, she hit the floor while Widowmaker took the chance to grapple off from the tower. 

“Oi—! Ditching the party so soon now?” 

She wasn't going to get away _that_ easy. Tracer blinked ahead in pursuit and discovered the venom mine by her feet just a second too late. The explosion easily collapsed the weak building she'd been on, and her next blink threw her unceremoniously onto the following roof by instinct. What a cheap move-- she'd honestly thought the Talon agent would have known better from that last time it happened. 

Tracer coughed, choking on what was likely to be blood, and managed a weak chuckle. _Ever get that feeling of deja vu?_

“That trick—won’t work twice, love.” 

Widowmaker merely stood there, a predatory smirk in place while she watched Tracer's face slowly contort in confusion. Normally at this point, she’d feel the pull of time like ghosts gliding through her veins—vision reversing with the few past seconds. Uncertainty began to coil its tentative weight somewhere deep in her stomach. All the while, Widowmaker began to slowly advance on her. 

_Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly..._

She wasn’t rewinding. 

_Why wasn’t she rewinding?_

Panic bubbling into her throat, Tracer glanced to her chest and found the issue immediately. Cracks off to the side of her accelerator’s case exposed just enough of the pulsating technology within to force the device into an emergency maintenance mode. And in that mode, her abilities were forfeit—a caveat Winston had put in place so as to not aggravate any temporal dissonance. She grasped the defect in her accelerator, as if she could will it to reverse the damage. All she felt instead were fracture lines breaking into calloused skin. 

“Such a shame to put our little game to an end so soon, _Cherie._ ” 

Tracer dragged her vision up—now blurring at the edges— to glare at the woman, backing away as she did so. With the gaseous concoction working further into her bloodstream, she stumbled in her haste. Her panic only seemed to further amuse the sniper, whose form began to manipulate itself under the hallucinogenic work of the poison. Purple filled her vision, the glowing red lens atop the assassin’s head multiplying as though dozens of spiders were bearing down on her. If she gasped at the sight, Tracer could not hear it. Her accelerator whined in futile protest with her instinct to blink, the sound amplifying not unlike a plane on descent. Or was it the Slipstream, ready to throw her back into the abyss of quantum eternity?

Shaking fingers aimed her last pistol at a convoluted mass of bleeding spiders with fragile desperation. 

Only laughter followed her into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo that's the first chapter. I've been wanting to write about these two for quite a while now, but I've been kind of hesitant about starting up a fic until now. It's actually been way too long (count: years) since I've written a proper story, as I've preferred to go for short things and drabbles instead of anything too plot heavy. Anyway, hope this was interesting enough for people to want to see more! And I apologize for any clunkiness-- getting back into the swing of things. And another warning, I'm terrible with...accents and such so I'm trying to keep it rather subtle instead of butchering anything. If anyone has any suggestions of course, I'm all ears.


	2. Casimir Effect

Widowmaker sat rigid on her gray excuse of a bed, staring into gray walls, delving further into grayer thoughts.

It was a successful mission, and yet she felt… _peculiar._

Wandering mentally with these thoughts she shouldn’t be entertaining.

Ever since she carried the fallen hero back to base, Widowmaker had felt strange. There was no reason for it to be due to her own venom mine—a toxic cocktail she was biologically immune to—nor could it be a result of that _annoying_ fly. She’d enjoyed their game, sure, but... She’d been excited at the prospect of a corrupted Tracer. Dismantling Overwatch. Yet… this pensive itching sensation had _not_ retreated.

She’d requested a neurological check-up immediately upon return, to which there’d been a delay.

Because of _her_.

And now, all she could do was wait, violated by the unwarranted sensation of restlessness mounting under her skin. They had sent Tracer to a special room, designated for heavy surgical rehabilitation and…heavy neurological _reassessment._

It was the same room she had once been welcomed in. The same one, all those years ago, and the memory had been fleeting until now. This was not supposed to be happening. Widowmaker was not supposed to feel, not here—not thinking of… _that room_. 

Her tongue distinguished its own blood, sharpened canines having torn into the offended appendage without care.

She needed treatment. Now.

Her grip fell on her Widow’s Kiss, nails curling into the metal as though it would bring her some shred of comfort. Something familiar. _Anything_.

" _Merde_ ," She hissed, forcing her breathing to even out before she lost her control any further. 

Killing her would have been easier.

 

_\-----------------------------------------------_

 

Her heart stuttered, pulse erratic—three beats, a skip—arteries pounding with the effort of stability. Something was screeching, electronic—

“What is wrong now?”

_Lena! Lena, oh gods, you’re alive, you’re really here—we thought we’d lost you--_

 “I—it’s the accelerator, it’s not stabilizing—“

_Hey! Get back here, you bloody mongrel!_

She was running. Or was she falling?

Ancient police sirens wailed behind her, under her, taunting her with the law--

She’d stolen something, hadn’t she… _hadn’t she?_

Her consciousness pulled at the seams, and Lena wasn’t sure if she was screaming or if the electronic beeping had gotten louder. Memories billowed forth from neurons long past, synapses thundering with an overload of repressed information. Sound itself warped, a bruised mess of sensation that felt like staring at the sun too long with your ears. Lena wanted to breathe, but her lungs felt full of sand— _wet_ , the kind that the tide had licked, and you’d put your feet in, but it was just too chilly…

_Congratulations, Oxton. You’ll be the first to undergo procedure for the Slipstream. After the initial test runs, she’ll be all yours for the mission._

Alarm clocks, ringing, always ringing—the yellow of their sound blinded her, teetering over consciousness. The tide was back, pulling her away as she struggled to stay rooted in cold sand. The sun’s dying light melted below the waves, pulling, pushing, engines roaring—

Lena Oxton choked for air as she hit a wall, as though she’d been in the middle of running for her life.

“H-holy—“ Another wheeze robbed her of speech, eyes darting around wildly. “Where—?”

White, so much white. Her surroundings told her nothing, except that she must be somewhere seriously clinical. It looked to be a hallway, with a few doors branching off here and there further along.

And…well, that was it.

The absence in décor gave no further clues, so Lena focused on stilling her wild heartbeat for a few minutes in order to think.

Something was terribly wrong.

Her head felt like it’d just been skewed on backwards, and her tongue tasted of dirt. She’d been in…King’s Row, hadn’t she? Right, some kind of mission… She was just in the middle of fighting with--

“ _Widowmaker!_ ” Her realization echoed off the walls, startling her frantic heart back into overdrive. Why couldn’t she recall past _that_ , though? Checking her accelerator, she found nothing to be amiss. Her fingers grazed over the white case, comforted by the soothing blue glow reflecting off her skin.

 _Odd_ ….wasn’t something wrong with it before?

Distant voices coming from one of the rooms down the hall dragged her back to the present.

_Right then. Time to figure out what’s goin’ on._

Casting a cursory sweep down both ends of the hall, she edged her way toward the source of the noise. There, on the far right—coming from that door. The mechanical beeping of a monitor gave her pause as she approached the entrance, feeling as though she’d been hit with a heady sense of déjà vu. Where had she heard that before….?

Fingers throbbing with adrenaline, she grasped the shiny metallic handle and pushed herself in.

If Lena had words ready on her tongue, she might as well have swallowed them with the sight before her.

There lay a typical operating table, followed by not so typical mechanical instruments enveloping the slab at center— all extremely advanced omnic-patented machinery by the looks of it, too. Bright budget this place had, she thought outwardly. The entire table was skewed at an angle that made her recall some old movie about a creature brought to life through lightning—damned if she’d remember the name now. Three people hovered in different states of concentration over the unconscious body strapped there, the focal point of it all.

That body--

_It was her own._

One of them pulled their attention away from Other Lena’s prone form, discovered they had company, and promptly took an extreme double take. His hand flew to his colleague’s, the incessant beeping of the machine behind them echoing through her as if it were in two different locations at once. Her heart stuttered again, faltering with her sense of reality.

Time seemed to stretch here, in what Lena knew should have been merely the expanse of a few seconds. She felt a nearly magnetic pulse inside this room, and instinctively took a step back. This had happened before. The doubling effect, the…multiplicity of her own consciousness. Her chronal accelerator always needed time to recharge if overexerted, but there had been a few instances when she didn’t give it enough rest.

Back when she didn’t realize the risk.

Her accelerator had overheated from extended use one of those days, internal fans pitching forth a crackling tone that definitely signaled trouble. It was then she’d caught sight of herself, sprinting just ahead. Lena had shouted, and Other Lena stopped, both sharing a look of complete bewilderment.

Winston theorized it could have been her from a parallel universe, or simply her from the same plane, during a different period of time. Either way, it was clear that her ‘doubling’ was from her accelerator attempting to coalesce her atoms all in the same location, causing an unstable flux in the fabric of time and space.

Lena hadn’t needed to understand all of the scientific lingo catapulting forth from her friend’s mouth back then to know that it was _not good_.

She understood enough now to know that her accelerator essentially acted like a spinning ring of neutrons, circulating on such an intense scale (similar to the mechanics of a rotating black hole, Winston explained) where the centrifugal force stabilized the energy that kept her whole. Otherwise, the entire device would collapse from the strain of gravity, or something to that effect. She used to pester him about the technicalities of it all constantly, so she could commit it all to memory. Something as important as a second heart, well, Lena wanted to know what made it beat— _why_ it beat. There was a certain comfort in having a sense of understanding around the glowing harness that kept her corporeal.

Back then, when she had first seen her double, she’d disappeared within minutes of shared conversation. It had been almost funny back then, once she realized her accelerator was fine.

But now…?

“You—you’re not supposed to be here,” The man’s voice cut through her mental fog, and she found her fingers tightening around the door handle she’d apparently never let go of.

“It’s the accelerator.” The woman to his side flicked her eyes between the two Lenas, only one of whom was conscious. Current Lena noticed that her Other’s accelerator was in the middle of operation, mechanical veins exposed, _vulnerable_ —a sight that gave her a wild sense of panic. Dark, polished gunmetal had replaced its previously pristine white shell, glinting harshly against the medical grade lamps. Her gaze fell heavily on the many straps locking her Other’s limbs against the table, crawling over the purpling bruises decorating her frame… the tubes running from her nose…“Her molecules should unify once we finish with it. _This_ _one_ shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hold _on_ now—“ Head swimming, she found herself leaning against the wall for support. “What are you doing with--- with _me_?”

 _This one shouldn’t be a problem_.

The woman’s words bit into the security of her reality, and for a second Lena felt as though she could feel those straps digging into her, holding her down.

She wasn’t—she _was_ her— _wasn’t she?_

What if--- what if she was the parallel Lena to be sent away from this universe? What would happen to _this_ Lena? For once, the harness holding her together didn’t feel so reassuring. In fact, it began to feel entirely caging.

“Ah, this was supposed to be rather covert, but since it _is_ you…” The woman who had spoken before seemed to find the situation exceedingly humorous. The haughty smile she aimed at Tracer held no warmth, and equally held no promises. “We are _improving_ you. Overwatch could not bring you to your true potential…so think of this as a gift, Tracer. Of course, we may have to revise that callsign as well—we’ll ask you what you think when the _real_ you wakes up.”

 _The real you_.

Lena's cheeks burned, and whether it was from humiliation or anger she couldn’t be entirely sure-- but hell if she was just going to let this lady tell her what she was going to do with herself. She removed her hand from the door, fingers finding purchase on both her pistols.

Whatever semblance of a retort bubbling in her throat faltered when heavy claws suddenly curled into her shoulder from behind, stopping her short.

The man's all too familiar death rattle murmured close to her ear, claws squeezing with the hideous intent of crushing bone.

“Welcome to Talon, _Oxton_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two, hope you all liked it!  
> I had this idea with Tracer's situation ever since I overheard this pre-match dialogue during a game where we had two Tracers-- one had asked if her accelerator had been malfunctioning because there were two of them. Then, well, I thought about quantum mechanics and made some more connections, because it seemed like something that had happened at least once before in canon-- or been hinted at. 
> 
> You can reach me over at my [tumblr](http://kimauki.tumblr.com/) or send me a message here if you'd like! Thanks for reading. :]


	3. Shadows in the Corner

The next few days stretched thin for Lena.

Whatever had happened after Reaper gave her _such_ a warm welcome, she had difficulty remembering. Hurt to try, really. What she did remember, however—is that one moment she’d been watching herself being operated on, and the next she’d woken up in what seemed little more than a functional _cage_. A toilet in the corner did little for décor, the only white object in her drab surroundings. At least that looked clean on inspection. A bed, though, would have been calling it luxury. She wasn't even provided a blanket. So much for little comforts. One of the cell's walls was lined with steel bars, framing a much more technologically updated door between them. Past that, she could glimpse a hallway that led to yet another door further down. The only thing keeping her from blinking around was the chain connecting her to the wall directly from her chronal accelerator. No, they couldn't have just put her in a room with a lock, now could they?

She could blink—and consequently be ripped out of this timeline in the process.

“It’d be like shootin’ myself, proper,” Lena mused aloud, finding bitter humor in the concept. She sighed then, biting down one of the few nails she had left. Having spent the past few days pacing the small cell, Lena had quickly run out of ways to occupy her mind. It had gotten to the point where she’d legitimately considered ripping the toilet apart to try breaking through the door. What stopped her was that they’d made her chain short enough that she couldn’t physically reach the door to begin with. That, and she wasn't keen on flooding the floor she had to sleep on. Restlessness began to buzz within her like an anxious creature desperate for activity. Talking to herself wasn’t a new habit, but it kept the silence at bay. She couldn’t _stand_ the quiet.

Wherever her friends were, she’d heard nothing from them. Not that she didn’t believe they weren’t searching—she had all the faith that they were trying. But she worried for them, too—she hated to feel so completely helpless to the situation. If they were stressing out and wasting precious resources over finding her, it was her fault to begin with. She was constantly getting herself into trouble, but this? This really took the cake. This wasn’t something she could apologize for, and justify her actions with. She’d purposely ignored the rendezvous route to engage with Widowmaker—and look where it got her. The others? They'd argue she was worth taking the trouble to save, but-- Lena found it hard to find herself worth the effort. 

The guilt gnawed at her, almost equal with the hunger pangs.

Of course there was never food left for her, beginning to realize they were most likely starving her out so she would be nice and desperate for whatever they were planning to do.

It wasn’t a nice thought, but it was one of the few she was left with to mull over.

“I really mucked it up this time, yeah?” She glanced down to her accelerator, garish purple hue still unfamiliar to her. That and the black-steel casing.  They’d rid her of her clothes, as well. She was dressed simply in gray sweatpants, and a black tank top underneath the accelerator. She felt a pit in her stomach, knowing that the changes done to her couldn’t have been purely cosmetic. They’d also added in a small hook to the back of her accelerator, where the chain was now attached. Her first few hours in the cell were spent awkwardly attempting to disassemble the bloody thing, to no avail—it proved seamless, and physical force resulted in a nice set of bruises on her hands.

At least it was long enough to let her pace, otherwise she’d have gone out of her mind the first day.

Lena feared sleeping too, but now exhaustion came all too easily. Came with the hunger, she supposed. Still, she tried to fight it-- pacing until she ended up supporting herself against the cold wall with fatigue. Sometimes, she thought she caught sight of a skeletal profile staring at her beyond the steel bars. Unmoving, but she felt… _presence_. The shape of it was nothing like the long, barn owl resemblance Reaper wore, but shorter. The rest of their figure was shrouded in shadow, and never moved despite Lena calling out to them. Those eerie, oval sockets for eyes would watch her for a time. But when she woke, the apparition was gone. 

Honestly, she might’ve hallucinated the entire thing at this point.

 

* * *

  

Lena lost track of the days now.

Sometimes she’d find a cup of water by the door, the only change to her cell she was ever aware of. Other than that, Lena had nothing to mark the passage of time. No window, no sunlight, just a fluorescent light that barely touched half the cell from the hallway beyond the bars. Her hunger had evolved into a visceral pain that became increasingly difficult to ignore. It ate at the edge of her consciousness, as though her thoughts might be sustenance. Concentrating deeply became tiring, and the fatigue that came with simply trying to _think_ made her afraid.

If they were looking for information, she would have hoped they’d try to beat it out of her by now. If not for just the human contact—of anything, _anyone_. A break from this monotony.

She’d begun to contemplate blinking just to experience a change in her existence. It felt as though she were to simply rot away, here. Never found, lost in some unnamed cell at a Talon base. What could be worse, this or the Slipstream?

Despite her delirium, she remembered her friends—and reminded herself why she’d never do such a thing.

The Slipstream, she knew, had been worse than death.

 

* * *

  

Eventually, her hunger began to drive her into an almost primal fever.

Lena absolutely, _could not_ , exist in this cell anymore.

She’d tested the support of the chain in the wall days ago, but the logic escaped her—she _was_ going to rip herself out of this wall. Shaking fingers wrenched at the link, feet sliding harshly with the effort of pulling her weight backward. Nothing budged, but this didn’t deter her. She set her feet back into place, grit her teeth, and pulled harder.

She’d try again.

And again.

Again.

_Again._

Heaving, Lena collapsed onto the ground. The smooth, frigid wall against her forehead gave little relief to the raging fire in her heart. Pinpricks crawled over her arms, muscles numb to the exertion she’d forced on them. She might have vomited, if there had been anything left in her stomach. Her hands were chafed raw with blood, but the pain didn’t register.

She was useless.

Stuck, she was stuck, they had her, she was going to _die_ here—

_“Do you feel it, yet?”_

The voice, so close, gave her such a fright she nearly hit her head on the wall while whirling around.

Unfocused, she could only stare as Reaper— _when did he appear?—_ gave her a short, gravelly chuckle.

_“Death. Can you feel it, closing in?”_

It took her a moment to process the situation, bringing her knees up defensively.

“If y’wanted to kill me so bad, why fit me with your fancy new gear?” She retorted, grimacing when he moved to kneel by her side. The sudden adrenaline made her skull ache. He was too close. After going so long without personal interaction the proximity felt… uncomfortable. Especially when the man in front of her could hardly be called a man.

_“We are not here to kill you, Lena.”_ Metal flashed in her peripheral, and she felt one of his claws graze her cheek with a gentleness she couldn’t fathom. _“We’re here to help you embrace a new life.”_

“W-what?! Get stuffed—!” She pushed away from him, stumbling to the side as far as her chain would allow. “Like _bloody hell_ I’m joining you!”

If it was possible, Reaper appeared disapproving.

_“Death comes, and you fail to appreciate it. It’s a shame… how blind you truly are.”_ He cornered her again, inky black cloak obscuring most of her vision. _“You’ll see, soon enough.”_

So focused he was on his own nonsense, that Lena saw her opportunity.

Rocking her body forward, Lena grappled for one of his shotguns, startling Reaper momentarily. It wasn’t enough, though—she was weak, reflexes worsened with fatigue—she barely had a finger brushing the trigger before he knocked it out of her grip and shoved her into the wall. Her accelerator screeched against the stone, bruising into her back. This was where she would rewind, if she could. The urge to do so from instinct was so strong, that she nearly almost did. A choked gasp escaped her, the claws around her throat forcing all air from her lungs.

_“So you want to make things difficult?”_ Stars filled her vision, the white of his mask fading around the edges. _“How_ amusing _.”_

When he finally released her, she began to wheeze, just barely conscious.

_“Food is by the door. Don’t choke on it.”_

And with that, he vanished.

When Lena finally came around, encouraged further by the enticing scent of food—she nearly wept.

A heaping portion of fish and chips.

How they’d known her favorite comfort meal, she couldn’t decide whether to feel revolted or relieved just by the sight of something edible. The reasoning wasn't important, not right now-- not when she felt as starved as she was. They could have given her stale bread, and it would have looked like a romantic candlelit dinner.

She devoured it in nearly a minute, forced to stop a few times only because she’d forgotten she needed to swallow. Wiping her mouth of the grease, Lena looked up and made eye contact with the shadowy skull figure from her dreams once more. This time, however, the figure moved away from her vision—like a hazy apparition. She thought she might have heard a giggle, bouncing off the walls as though distorted.

“Oi, pull yourself together…” She shook her head, laughing a bit to herself. “You’re just seein’ things…”

What Lena didn’t notice, however, was the way in which her accelerator pulsed in response to the figure. 

 

* * *

 

 “How far is it coming along, now?”

_“Todo marchará bien._ _80.8769%. No te preocupes.”  [Everything is going well. 80.8769%. Don't worry.]_

“It seems we can start her training tomorrow then. Let’s see how well she cooperates.”

“ _Me muero por verlo.”   [I can't wait to see it.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with this. College bombarded me without warning. :/ I also proofread on my own, so I can take some time just trying to make sure things sound okay. I'm sure there's errors, though haha. I'm sorry about it being kinda short too. I'm going to try and work on length as well. I just haven't written proper fiction in forever, so...I feel rusty. :x 
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys regardless! Let me know what you think! :) 
> 
> Random notes: I thought it would be neat if the changed color of her accelerator looked like a blacklight.


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